


Special Delivery

by battle_cat



Series: Together [52]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, stoned road warriors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Citadel gardens grow magic mushrooms. You can probably guess how this turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> Based on YoukaiYume's [delightful smutty art](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/149628617688/warning-nsfw-for-this-weeks-smut-prompt-for) and SingleWhiteCatLady's prompt suggestion: "We found some mushrooms in the garden and ate them and now we can touch souls metaphysical stoner sex."

She hasn’t seen mushrooms in ages; few places are wet enough for them these days. So when she finds the delicate white stems and yellow-brown heads sprouting from the roots of a tree in the deepest shade of the terrace gardens, she plucks one and goes looking for Dag.

The Vault has become a makeshift greenhouse, rows of the most delicate sprouts tucked up against the curved glass of the dome. It’s still not somewhere Furiosa goes unless she has to, but it’s changed enough that she doesn’t feel ready to crawl out of her skin every time she steps inside.

Furiosa finds Janey and Eves repotting seedlings along with Dag, baby Angharad swaddled on her back. “These are new, right?” Furiosa asks, and Dag gives a little coo of delight when she drops the mushroom into her hand.

“What are _you,_ little poppet?” Dag asks the mushroom as she thumbs through the faded pages of a Before-time plant book. It occurs to Furiosa that Dag might never have seen a mushroom.

“Oh lordy.” Janey looks over Dag’s shoulder. Eves joins her and cackles.

“Can you eat it?” Furiosa asks. She remembers enough to know some kinds are delicious and others are poison, but not how to tell one from the other.

“Well…you _can_ eat it,” Eves begins with a grin, and Janey hisses. 

“What?” Eves shoots her a look. She plucks the mushroom out of Dag’s palm and examines it approvingly. “Nice clean high, no hangover, won’t stress your heart like that chrome shit. They’re quite enjoyable.”

“Don’t tell the War Boys,” Janey says. “Unless you want everyone describing the color of guzzoline fumes.” Eves laughs long and hard at that.

 

Furiosa has no cause to think about the mushrooms until some ten days later, when Eves catches up to her after lunch and shoos her into a secluded nook in the hallway.

“Special delivery.” She casts a glance over her shoulder then tips a small handful of dried mushrooms into Furiosa’s palm. “Don’t tell Janey, eh? Got an awful stick up her bum for someone who relies on herbal remedies.”

“I—I don’t need—” Furiosa begins, but Eves makes a dismissive noise.

“So few sensory pleasures left. Relax, enjoy yourself for once.” Furiosa snorts, but Eves curls her fingers over the mushrooms. “That amount’s good for two people,” she says with a wink.

“I really don’t think—”

“Do them somewhere you feel safe. Outside is nice. Daylight is nice too; see more interesting stuff. Better with a friend, y’know?” She gives Furiosa an unsubtle nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “Oh, and they taste like ass, so bring a bit of fruit to wash ‘em down.”

She pats Furiosa’s arm and is gone down the corridor before Furiosa can think of a word of protest to raise.

She opens her hand and looks down at the curled brown bits of mushroom.

There are hardly any drugs at the Citadel. Janey and Capable confiscated every chrome can they could find, once they discovered the ingredients in the crude lab where the Organic Mechanic had been making it. Alcohol was once only for Joe and his guests, or for trade; now it’s shared more widely but is still a rare treat, potatoes and fruit that could have gone whole into stomachs instead.

It’s not untrue, what Eves said about sensory pleasures. Food is whatever will keep you running, clothes are whatever will keep you warm, and washing is for whenever you stink too much. There are Tells and music-making nights, but Furiosa isn’t the kind to slap a drum or jump up and dance. Sparring and sex are reliable diversions, but even those endorphins will only take you so far.

In the middle of every crisis she finds herself wishing for a moment of calm, but when the calm actually comes she twitches under its weight, longing for distraction. She understands a bit of Max’s restlessness, the urge to run just to know the sand is moving under her tires, to see something new on the horizon even if it’s only another bit of desert.

And, well, she’s a little bit curious.

 

She’s not quite sure how to present the situation to Max, or what his reaction will be. But when she unwraps the cloth in which she’s tucked the desiccated mushrooms he huffs out what might be a laugh.

“Didn’t know those grew anymore.”

“So you know what they are?”

“Yeah.” His gaze flicks up to her face and she raises her eyebrows and a smile creeps onto his lips and it turns out she doesn’t need to explain anything at all.

 

The heat is intense enough at this time of year that the gardens are empty between lunch and dusk, garden workers napping or tending to indoor tasks during the blistering afternoons.

It’s still hot in the secluded corner where she first found the mushrooms, but the canopy of leaves shields them from the harshness of the sun, and the grass is soft.

The mushrooms are bitter enough to make her cough when she chews them. She bites into the honey-sweet flesh of a date to cover the taste. Max has that look on his face like he’s laughing at her, but with just his eyes. But then he can’t help grimacing when he swallows his portion, and she laughs for real at him, a sharp giggle that startles even her. Nothing has taken effect yet, she knows that, but the childish thrill of doing something illicit together bubbles under her skin.

He’s still chewing, forehead wrinkled. She leans over and slips the other half of the date into his mouth. His lips close over her fingers, sucking the sticky flesh from the pit, and then he catches her wrist and licks the juice off her fingers.

He licks his lower lip, and then she has to lean forward and kiss him, slow and hot and sucking lingering sweetness off his tongue.

She tucks the date pit carefully into a cloth in her pocket for re-seeding, and then he tucks her into his arms, sitting with his back against the nearest tree trunk. His jacket is neatly folded on the ground beside them, and after a moment she unbuckles her arm and lays the metal on top of the leather.

His hand strokes idly over the thin cloth covering her stomach. The heat is liquid.

“How long does it take to work?”

She feels him shrug behind her.

His hand is running slowly over her arm now, up to her shoulder and back down to the tips of her fingers. For a while she just stares up at the pattern of light dancing through the leaves of the trees, at the flat blue sky beyond. She can’t tell if the deep contentment sinking into her bones is pharmacological or just the result of sitting here in the green with Max’s soft fingers trailing over her skin.

At some point she tucks her head against his shoulder, looking back down at the ground, and…

“The grass is waving.”

“‘S windy.”

“No, it’s…kind of…rippling. Like water.” In her rational mind she knows it’s not really moving, but she reaches down to touch the carpet of green that’s rolling like a calm lake disturbed by a thrown pebble. It feels strange to touch solid earth instead of a liquid surface.

“Do you see it?”

“Mm,” Max grunts vaguely. “Bark’s doing something weird though. Kind of…patterny thing…” He breathes out a small noise of amusement, adjusts himself to settle back against the tree trunk. “‘S…feels nice.”

It _does_ feel nice, a limpid clear calm that makes it seem as if nothing could exist outside this quiet grove and she would not remotely care. She leans her head back against Max’s shoulder, looking up at the leaves, watching the blue of the sky and the green of the leaves leak into each other and run together.

He’s back to stroking her arm again, and now the touch seems to vibrate through her skin, the purr of a distant engine. She turns a little, scooting up to kiss his throat. His pulse seems to echo through her lips, echo through her body, blood calling to blood. And then without her being aware of either of them moving she’s kissing his lips, his breath filling her up like a bellows, and why has she never noticed how unbelievably soft the inside of his mouth is? Soft and wet and warm…she runs her tongue over the inside of his upper lip and he startles a little.

“Soft,” she tries to explain, the word half-mumbled into his mouth. He pulls back a little and looks at her, a hand cupping her jaw.

“Eyes,” he mutters. “Keep changing. Thought they were green, but…”

And his…she’d thought they were blue, but now the ring of color around the wide pupil looks green, the most brilliant green she’s ever seen, but as soon as she really looks at it, it turns blue again.

“Keep switching. Running together…like the sky and the leaves,” she murmurs.

“Hmm?” His forehead wrinkles.

“I…I think we’re high,” she gets out before she starts giggling, and then she can’t stop. She buries her face in the warm hollow of his neck. His laughter is a silent shudder of his chest underneath her.

She cuddles against him, wishing she could bury herself deeper, crawl inside his skin. When his hand slides under the back of her shirt she hums approvingly. “More touching,” she mutters against the frayed collar of his shirt.

He nudges her over so her back is against his chest again, and then both his hands are running under her shirt, skating over the flesh of her stomach, sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs running slow circles around her nipples. It feels so good she arches up under his touch, pressing herself into his hands.

His face is against the back of her neck, not really kissing, just nuzzling softly. He is softer like this, more open about seeking his own pleasure, touching her because it makes him feel good. He’s pressing against her like…like a _cat,_ she dredges the name of the soft small animal up from old Mothers’ stories. She feels a low noise of pleasure rumble out of him when he rubs his cheek against her hair. 

His hands have stopped moving on her breasts, and at some point she realizes he’s gotten thoroughly absorbed in rubbing his face against her hair. He makes a disgruntled noise when she pulls away from him, but she swings around—the world blurs into long streamers of the most brilliant green—and settles down straddling his lap. When she starts tugging clumsily at her shirt with one hand he gets the hint and helps her peel it off, and then together they tug off his.

They’re both sweaty enough that flesh slides together in a dizzying blur, the rub of her nipples against the hair on his chest making her shiver, mouths buried against necks and shoulders as they grind against each other. She can’t stop touching his hair, the rough stubble on his cheek, and then her hand lands on the muscle in his shoulder that moves as his hands stroke up and down her back and she can’t stop touching _that._

She can feel herself wet and shivering where she’s pressed against his crotch, but he’s barely even hard. He doesn’t seem to care, though, moaning when she scratches her nails lightly over his scalp. “Wanna…mm…touch you everywhere,” he mumbles against her collarbone.

“What’re you waiting for?”

A lazy tilt of the world and then she’s on the ground, and the grass is so soft she wiggles her bare back against it delightedly. Max is undoing her belt with a look of utmost concentration on his face, but the pale shadow her hand leaves behind it when it moves is much more interesting, and it somehow feels desperately important for her to watch that.

She only realizes when Max catches her hand and twines their fingers together that they’re both completely naked, which seems funny for some reason. He’s still only halfway hard but he lies down on top of her, and _ohh,_ just the press of his skin has her squirming. She spreads her legs wider around his hips, shifting until his half-erect cock is pressed against where she’s open and wet. He rolls his hips and they both groan.

She doesn’t know how long it takes for him to get fully hard—time is loose and drippy—but she comes, and then comes again, long, slow waves that roll through her entire body, and then he shifts and he’s inside her, although she can’t be sure they haven’t just melted together below the waist.

He’s moving his hips so slowly, and every stroke seems to reach so deep inside her that she can’t quite breathe, overwhelmed with sensation. She realizes she has her hand fisted in the grass as if she’ll slide off if she lets go, and then his fingers are interlaced with hers again, pressing the back of her palm to the ground and she doesn’t feel like she’s about to slide off anymore, his hand in hers and his other hand around her forearm just below where she can feel her ghost fingers flexing, his weight holding her steady against the ground.

She has no idea how long they move, if it’s him moving or the both of them together, but it seems like the same thing. She loses track of if she’s actually coming or not, where the orgasms end and the background radiation of whole-body euphoria begins. His mouth licks and sucks at random along her neck, along her clavicle, and any movement beyond turning her head seems like way too much effort, so she turns and kisses his wrist because that’s what she can reach.

At some point she realizes he’s still, and there’s a sticky mess between them. Very far in the background, her hips ache from being spread open for a long time.

She doesn’t know if he’s asleep, but when she kisses the top of his head he turns to look at her, a loopy smile on his face. “‘S nice,” he slurs. “You’re nice.”

His hair is damp with sweat but still so velvety soft when she runs her fingers through it.

Some unknown interval of time later she registers the pins and needles in her left leg, although they seem very far away. She shifts under him and he slides out of her and off her, letting her move her leg around experimentally on the soft grass. There’s a faint twinge of soreness in her pussy and she wonders exactly how long they were fucking, what she’ll feel like tomorrow. But then he curls up next to her with his forehead against her shoulder and a lazy arm thrown over her ribcage and she stops wondering.

When she wakes up the light has gone ruddy with approaching sunset and the grass is cold and prickly under her skin. She can feel a twig poking her ass and a gritty little rock under her shoulderblade. Max’s head is heavy on her numb shoulder and her mouth is desperately dry.

There’s a canteen next to his jacket. It looks impossibly far away, but when she rolls over and reaches out for it her hand connects with the cool metal.

Max stirs and mutters a sleepy “…hnngh?” into her armpit.

“Should get up,” she rasps. She tips onto her side—the world only wobbles a little—and takes a long drink from the canteen. She passes it to Max and flops back down on her back, her limbs feeling heavy and loose. The grass still ripples if she stares at it long enough, but when she looks up the purpling sky and the dark green leaves have put their edges back together again.

Max lies back down, curling around her again in the cooling air. “Was nice,” he mutters, nuzzling under her chin. “Didn’t know…sometimes brings up. Bad memories.”

“Said do it…someone safe. Some _where_ safe,” she corrects herself, but it really seems like the same thing.

 

It takes them far too long to collect their clothes, and even longer to put them back on the right body parts. By the time they’re dressed it’s dusky and getting hard to see in the deep shadows of their patch of the garden.

The little mushrooms’ pale bodies still stand out against the gloom, and in the twilight she can see just how many of them are scattered around on and between roots.

They exchange a look and wordlessly pick a handful each, tucking them away in pockets before going inside.


End file.
